


When I Think About You (I Touch Myself)

by Anonymous



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, M/M, Masturbation, Sex Toys, i'm horny and incoherent so make of this what you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 07:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16321817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It’s an experience, he tells himself as the cursor wavers over the final button confirming his purchase and his face burns a bright, mortified indigo.It’s a point of reference, he tells himself over the next few nights he spends jumping at the sound of every drone, scanning the open skies around his hive.It’s an advantage, he tells himself when on the third night the drone finally touches down, package in hand, and he all but snatches it away to hurry back into his hive, guilty as a misbehaving grub.It’steal, he realizes once it’s out of the box. It’s teal and it’s thick and sweet Condescension, he’s holding a sex toy modeled after his kismesis.





	When I Think About You (I Touch Myself)

It’s an experience, he tells himself as the cursor wavers over the final button confirming his purchase and his face burns a bright, mortified indigo.

It’s a point of reference, he tells himself over the next few nights he spends jumping at the sound of every drone, scanning the open skies around his hive.

It’s an advantage, he tells himself when on the third night the drone finally touches down, package in hand, and he all but snatches it away to hurry back into his hive, guilty as a misbehaving grub.

It’s _teal_ , he realizes once it’s out of the box. It’s teal and it’s thick and sweet Condescension, he’s holding a sex toy modeled after his kismesis.

Gingerly, unable to look at his fingers wrapped around the girth of it, he sets it back in its open shell of packaging and turns away to clear his throat, fists balled in his lap just clear of the bulge in his suit pants and ears hot to the tips. He’s no ingenue, having watched or more often read his share of pornography, but—this is different. This is _accurate_.

Or, well. As accurate as his approximation could have been, considering that he’d never seen Tagora naked and he certainly couldn’t ask to have seen Tagora naked to model for a copy of his bulge, because how would Galekh have explained that, and how would he have responded if Tagora had asked him what wouldn’t suffice about the original?

He halts that train of thought before imminent crash but too late to keep his breath even. It’s deep, erratic, much louder than it should be, and he can’t get enough air through his nose alone as the tent in his pants squirms sluggishly, dragging the beginnings of dark stains against fabric. Shifting his hands to his knees, stiff-backed, he feels thoroughly perverted. For a minute, he sits, making his best effort to ease his breathing back into a regular rhythm and his thoughts back into subjects unrelated to concupiscent attention, and when that fails, he reaches again for the box before he can hesitate.

Details, then. Details, so the rush of adrenaline-laced adolescent hormones doesn’t set his thinkpan on fire all at once. The aforementioned color, for one: the specific hex code he’d requested directly from Tagora’s sign, brighter at the tapered tip than the base. For another, the size. While he’d maintained his eye for detail, following the average proportions of a troll Tagora’s height and build, Galekh had admittedly erred on the side of generosity in both length and girth, which is grievously evident under his fingertips.

Even without ribs or ridges, a simple, smooth curve, the dense silicone of it is...intimidating, in the very specific way that makes his nook ache and outright _throb_ like he’d always thought was an exaggeration in his erotica.

Lip caught between his fangs, he stares down the toy’s length a moment. Two moments. Then he releases his lip, inhales, and licks delicately at the tip. It tastes, predictably, like silicone and very little else, but after a third moment with his nerves strung on end, Galekh sighs, a measure of tension ebbing from his shoulders, and leans in again.

This time he seals his lips around the first half-inch of it, tonguing its point. Spit coats the firm, slowly-warming surface and his eyes slip shut, head tipping back, by the next full inch he slides into his mouth. Heat flares all the way down to his collar. The friction’s starting to leave his lips swollen, messy with his own saliva; on a whim, he tries a soft moan around the toy. The sound comes out like nothing out of pornography but makes him shiver all the same.

His eyes blink open just in time to catch the trailing strand of saliva when he pulls away, breath beyond any hope of salvaging. Sweat sticks a few curled locks to his forehead and a few patches of his button-up to his chest until he blinks again and sets to undoing his suit with a huffing curse and trembling fingers. His tie is the first to be draped across the back of his loungeplank, followed not quickly enough by his jacket, shirt, and finally pants. He falters, only his sock garters, glasses, and briefs left, before removing only the lattermost in a slow tug, and then he’s all but naked, sprawled disheveled on his loungeplank with one hand wrapped around a custom-ordered dildo.

He swallows, slides two fingers along the folds of his nook. They’re sensitive to the point of twitching and what he can only describe as puffy, so wet his fingers come away with slick stringing thickly between them. Alright. Alright, this won’t hurt, he reassures himself, and braces his shoulder against the side of the loungeplank, twisting halfway onto his side and spreading his thighs. One leg against the cushions, one propped up on the arm—the brunt of the air hits his bared nook and he shivers. Careful, hesitant, he guides his bulge up and out of the way with one hand as he positions the dildo with the other, nails digging into silicone with the strength of his grip, and pushes.

An undignified noise catches halfway choked in his throat, a ripple of tension passing through his whole body as the toy slides into him. Eyes screwed shut, he grinds his face into the loungeplank and muffles another desperate, cracking moan, hand shaking almost too badly to press it further but only almost. Each shift of it against his walls, the _pressure_ with every involuntary clench around its girth, sends a shock of tingling heat up his spine, making his toes curl in his socks and his thighs shake.

“Fuck,” he manages, between a groan and a whine. When he pulls the toy from himself, his nook nearly pulls back, clutching at it to pull it deeper again. The second slow thrust is even better than the first and he grits his teeth, arching his back so that the toy’s tip nudges against his seedflap and a dizzying surge of arousal lights up his gut. “Fuck, Tagora—oh, god…” Words trail off into only a sharp, pitching growl, the kind of sonorous noise he recognizes only from pitch porn.

On occasion, he had used his fingers, had sunken two shallowly into himself and rocked against them, but they’d been too rigid to push comfortably any deeper. He’d tried, even, in the days the package took to be delivered, anticipating its contents and receiving only a sore nook for his efforts. He might as well not have, because the toy is nothing like any of it.

There’s give to the silicone, enough of it to fill him without straining him when he bears down, squeezes for just that bit more friction in every movement, enough of it that he pushes until the toy’s base touches his entrance and cracks his eyes open to see his folds spread around the full breadth of it underneath his coiling, dripping bulge. His panting breath stutters. It’s more than he thought he could take.

Broken by chirrs and gasps and all the ineloquent bitten-off noises he can’t hold back, that growl only swells in his chest, the pitch mating sound surreal to hear in his own voice. All of him is hot and aching, his chest heaving and stomach tight as he ruts his hips against the toy not quite in time with his thrusts, and he clutches the cushion of the loungeplank in one hand tightly enough to verge on tearing it.

Dilute indigo trails over the muscle of his abdomen where his bulge drags against skin—he didn’t get out a bucket, did he? The thought makes his stomach lurch and his pace falter for all of a second until the sudden dip in sensation is unbearable. He takes the dildo to its base in one jerking, needy buck of his hips once more and groans in abject relief, hand soaked down to the cramped wrist. Bucket or not, he wants—he _wants_ —

“Tagora,” he whines, and then his throat locks alongside every other muscle in his body, legs stiffening, nook clamping down, eyes snapping shut behind fogged-up glasses while the unbearable knot of heat and tension breaks in a wash of feedback so intense it’s almost numbing.

As well as a much more literal wash of thick indigo genetic material spattering across his bare, sweat-shining chest and trickling down his stomach.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a warmup but it got out of hand so i just hope it made some of you horny people happy


End file.
